The More Things Change
by WorldsGreatestDefective
Summary: In his tenure as Robin, Jason had his fair share of extreme ups and downs. Still, he preferred to try and focus on the ups when he could. One-shots revolving around his life in YJ, mostly focused on the Bat family. Can be read separate or as a companion to I'll Follow You Anywhere. T for inevitable language and themes.
1. Favorite Things

**I realized there are still a lot of memories in Jason's time as Robin that I'd like to explore, mostly centered around the Bat family. Couldn't help it, I just wanted a bit more fluffy family time. Anyway, here you have it. These can go along with I'll Follow You Anywhere, but you could still read these on their own. There are some sad bits in the first chapter, mostly in Jason's treatment by his father, but it's mostly just implied. Don't read if this may upset you. **

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"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…"

The song was low, barely above a whisper, but unmistakable as Dick passed by Jason's bedroom door. A full month after the boy came to live with them, there were still plenty of surprises in store as their foundation settled. One of them happened to be Jason's apparent appreciation for cheesy, old musical numbers.

Dick cracked open the bedroom door, expecting to find his new little brother prancing around like Julie Andrews in front of his mirror. Actually, he mostly just _hoped_ that was the case. The blackmail would be priceless! But, as is often the case in the House of Wayne, what one hopes and what proves to be true are often two completely different animals.

Jason was curled on his bed, his knees up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs, staring out the window. Every now and then his voice would drop off, Dick thinking the song was over. Then, like the low hum of an old record, Jason would start up again.

"These are a few of my favorite things," he continued.

Suddenly guilty at his intrusion, Dick cleared his throat and said, "You know, if those really are your favorite things, you should probably tell Bruce. He'd try to get you rollerblades or a bike instead."

The boy had never seen so many emotions flash over someone's face so quickly. Surprise, embarrassment, sadness, and anger were the four that he caught in the mere seconds after his interruption.

"What the hell are you doing in here?! Don't you ever knock?! Get the hell out!" Jason yelled.

His cheeks erupted into a livid crimson, and the boy was off the bed and storming to the Boy Wonder faster than Catwoman would approach a diamond-encrusted bowl of milk. When he was just within arm's length, he lashed out, his fist connecting hard into Dick's cheek. Perhaps the young hero could have dodged it, but in the instant between an uninjured face and the fist connecting, he wasn't sure he really wanted to. Clearly Jason needed to hit something in that moment, so it might as well be him instead of one of the Ming Dynasty vases.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt like a bitch! The eleven-year-old could pack a heck of a wallop when he really got the energy.

"Jeez!" Dick exclaimed, holding his face.

Another myriad of emotions ran over Jason's face. It was like playing an emotional Wheel of Fortune, and Dick hoped to God that it didn't end with another punch. He had enough of those on patrols and missions with the team.

"I… You deserved that!" Though Jason shouted these words, his tone was weak. Shaky. His posture sagged and shook, and Dick was sure the boy would have raced out of there entirely if he hadn't been blocking the door.

"What's wrong with you?" the older boy asked, careful of his voice.

"You should have knocked! And- and now Bruce is going to kill me. You convinced me to stay here, and now he's going to throw me out on my ass! In a body bag!"

"Whoa, dude, what?!" This kid really needed to relax! Dick's face was throbbing, but in the rush of confusion he barely had the time to feel it. "What the heck makes you think that?"

"I just decked you."

Dick shook his head. "You punched me and I'm not exactly whelmed, and if Bruce asks I'm not going to lie and say I fell down the stairs, but I'm not going to go tattle. I was the first jerk by just coming in here. Sorry, I'm still getting used to having another kid in the house. Second, why would Bruce kick you out or kill you? I'm still standing and still live here, and I've done a whole lot worse than punch someone else. In case you forget which house we're in, we do a lot of punching around here. Not at each other, really, but we'd be screwed if that's what sent us packing."

Jason relaxed a little at that, even backing up to collapse on his bed. "He's still going to be angry with me if he finds out."

"Maybe," Dick shrugged. "So? Don't make a habit of it. It's not a big deal, though."

The younger boy looked away, back out the window into the early signs of spring below. Though his face was unreadable, Dick watched as the boy pulled at the seam of his jeans and toyed with his cuticles. He didn't need M'gann's powers to feel the anxiety rippling off the boy.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Dick asked, chancing a seat next to the boy.

Jason clammed up for a few moments, but Dick just waited. He'd had longer patrols than this kid had patience, he was sure. After a few minutes, Jason took a deep breath.

"He… he doesn't get _too_ mad, does he?"

"Who, Bruce?" Dick asked. "He's Batman. He can get pissed, but mostly at criminals. Though, you should have seen him when I broke into Cadmus with Wally and Kaldur. I thought he was going to turn into a vampire bat or something."

The joke didn't exactly have the intended effect on Jason that Dick wanted. Instead of easing his nerves, it forced Jason further back into his shell. Damn that hermit crab habit he had! The sight made Dick want to apologize as if the whole punching thing was _his_ fault.

"Come on, it's not that big of a deal," Dick tried, gently reaching out his hand. However, Jason winced and pulled away, as if the contact burned his skin. With each passing second, he looked more twitchy and uncomfortable, like a lab mouse hunting for an exit. It wasn't until a footstep sounded down the hall, sending Jason further back into his bed, that Dick realized what was running through the boy's mind.

"Jay… Bruce isn't going to hurt you."

Jason returned Dick's gaze, a hesitant relief washing over the older boy. "You sure?"

"I'm positive. Is that what you're worried about? You punched me and you're worried he's going to punch you back or something?"

An uncomfortable shift, more cuticle abuse, and a shrug. "Not necessarily punch, but maybe. Just, you know, hurt. He's a big guy, and you can't tell me he doesn't have a temper. He's gotten mad at me before, but I was just a guest or something."

"You were always more than just some guest, but I guess I can see where you're coming from. Look, Jason, Bruce has a temper when Wayne Enterprises board members are idiots, when high society brings up the poor-little-rich-boy story again, and when the press labels him as a moronic playboy. Batman gets mad at criminals and sometimes gets irritated at Robin or the team, but you don't have a reason to be scared of either of them. I've lived here for almost five years, now. I've done some really, really dumb things. I mean, _really_ dumb. That chandelier in the foyer? Do you know how many times I've broken it? And it's best not to ask about the amount of paintings I've ruined."

"And he's never flipped his lid?" asked Jason, his posture unraveling.

Dick smiled and shook his head. "He's flipped more lids than I can count, but nothing bad. Batman has only hit me in training or when he was mind-controlled, and both were accidental. Bruce has never hit me. I'm sure he's wanted to a few times; he practically told Alfred as much when I broke the chandelier a third time. Still, he's never hurt me, and he never would. Not on purpose. Okay?"

Jason bit his lip before nodding, glancing back out the window. "I just know, you know, sometimes parents do that."

He could sense Jason retreating again, so he moved closer, joining him in his nature watching. "Yeah, I know. When I was at the circus, I was told over and over not to mess with the animals. It wasn't my place to feed them, especially the ones we had just gotten that were still being trained. It was dangerous. Still, a tiger? A real, live tiger? You can't tell me that's not too cool for a kid to pass up the chance to see. So, I snuck out of our trailer when I knew they were giving the tigers their last meals of the night, and went to go toss a strip of meat at them when no one was looking."

"I don't know what happened," he continued, Jason turning to watch him as the story unfolded. "One minute everything was fine, and the next the tiger was lunging for me. Old Jack pulled me back in time, and my dad pulled me away from the animals as half the tamers tried to calm the tiger down. I don't think I have ever been that scared in my life. My dad said he was even more scared. He said that's why he grabbed my hand and struck it hard twice, right there in front of half the circus. He felt bad afterward and said he could only see that tiger coming after me, so he just reacted. I think it actually hurt him more than it hurt me, if you can believe it."

Jason looked down at his knees and nodded. "Yeah, my mom was like that. She never hurt me, but she was mad at me once when I didn't come home at the right time. She, uh… wasn't feeling well. She started yelling at me and said a few mean things. She told me later she didn't mean it, and I believed her. I know it happens sometimes."

Dick watched as the boy adjusted uncomfortably, staring down at his knees. He began to pick at a thread in the seam, occasionally chewing on his lip. "My father was different. He meant it. I haven't seen him in years, but I still remember the look when he would get mad. Sometimes it wasn't at anything at all. He just got mad at nothing, and we were there."

The older boy knew where this was going, but hoped he was wrong. Still, he didn't move or say at word. Something told him Jason needed to say this, to purge the poison.

"Mom, umm, usually didn't feel well, so it tended to be me against my dad. I'd say a few smart aleck things and he'd get pissed. I wanted to prove I was a bigger man than he was. Still, I felt like a baby whenever I cried after he was finished."

They sat there in silence for a while, watching as the light began to dim outside. An orange glow illuminated the room, masking some of the pink flush in Jason's cheeks. Dick almost thought it best to leave him alone in his thoughts, let him recover now that the humiliation of his family was somewhat out in the open, but Jason stopped him before he could leave.

"My mom used to sing that song whenever I was upset. Mostly when my father left and we'd just had a fight. She said her grandmother used to sing it to her, so she sang it to me. At least, she did before she got _really_ sick, but by then my old man was long gone."

"It's a nice song," Dick said, at a bit of a loss.

"Yeah… I mean, it's stupid and cheesy, but it's still kind of nice. Talking about the good things you like instead of thinking about the bad, you know?"

Dick nodded, and together they sat in silence until Alfred called them down to dinner. Jason descended the stairs slowly, taking a distant second behind his older foster brother to the dining room. Regardless of what Dick said about Bruce, he was still nervous about the man's temper.

"Take a seat and— Good heavens! Master Richard, what on earth happened to your cheek?" Alfred asked, immediately moving to the boy to inspect his face.

The boy just shrugged. "I was being stupid. Not a big deal. I'll be more careful next time."

Though Bruce and Alfred exchanged a suspicious glance, Jason couldn't help the smile rising on his face. True to his word, Dick hadn't lied. He'd have to remember those vague answers in the future whenever he got into trouble, though something told him Bruce was allowing the subject to slide more than he usually would.

That evening, the dinner conversation revolved around a new Wayne Tech prototype, school subjects, and new maneuvers. No one mentioned the rising bruise on Dick's face or how polite Jason managed to be, particularly to Dick. They kept everything light. Simple.

It was exactly that reason that had Jason believe the subject had been dropped entirely. However, a few days later he entered his bedroom to find a CD laying on his bed. There was no bow or fanfare of any kind, just a CD with a small post-it stuck on top.

_Figured you could use a few more of your favorite things. - Dick_

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**It couldn't be helped! Okay, maybe it could have, but I didn't really care to help it. I hope you liked reading it. **

**-Defective**


	2. Baseball Bats

**Bruce and Jason bonding time is, personally, always a fun read. It turned out to also be a fun write. Again, I own nothing, and I hope you all enjoy!**

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Jason really wasn't much of a sports fan. Then again, in order to be one, you had to have the ability to watch the damn things. When the only channel your crumby television got growing up was a fuzzy, bastardized version of PBS, watching it became less of a priority than basically everything else. On top of that, the Todd house wasn't one to receive a newspaper or really anything with reliable news of the outside world, so sports scores and the latest athletic hotshot were lost on the boy.

"Come on, I'm sure you'll have fun," Barbara tried, sitting next to Dick as they attempted to work on their science project together. "Dad was able to get box seats, too, so you won't have to deal with too many people around you."

Jason and Bruce exchanged a glance. Baseball? Crowds? While Bruce Wayne could certainly get box seats himself, it was never a thought to come to mind. Dick wasn't much of a baseball person, preferring to watch gymnastics when he watched anything at all, and… Bruce wasn't really quite sure what Jason appreciated, come to think of it.

Either way, Barbara wasn't taking no for an answer. "You know, if you don't take them, Dad's going to keep trying to find ways to say thanks for that donation you just gave, and I'm going to have find another way to say thanks to Jay here for helping me take care of those little jerks at school."

"There is no need to thank me, and _really _no need to encourage Jason," Bruce said, sending his foster son a slight glare.

"There's no need for _you_ to encourage him, Mr. Wayne. It's my job as the pseudo-older brother's friend to be a bad influence," she replied.

Bruce stared her down, but the redhead simply smiled, not one to be intimidated by the towering billionaire. He had to hand it to her—she had more balls than half the men on the Wayne Enterprises board, and she wasn't even out of high school, yet.

"Who knows? You both may like it," Dick added, oh-so-helpfully. "Think about it Bruce, you can wear that one t-shirt you own. And, if you get really crazy, you can wear jeans, too."

"I bet he owns 'dad jeans'," Jason replied.

"My jeans are perfectly fine." He sent the three of them another look before dropping it, shaking his head. "You know, it's not fair when I have the three of you ganging up on me."

Sure enough, Barbara (with a little help from Dick—not that she needed it) won out. That weekend Bruce and his eleven-year-old ward were off see the Gotham Knights against the Star City Rockets, the pair of them looking like they had just lost their way in Oz.

"You'd think with an IQ higher than Einstein's, this would have been easier for you to figure out," Jason teased as they finally found their way to their section.

"Watch it, Jay. I can still take you home." Though the threat sounded firm, the amusement in Bruce's eyes said otherwise.

"You'd take too long to find the car. We might as well at least catch the game before you do that."

"Smart aleck."

"Dad jeans."

Bruce rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as they took their seats. For the first few innings, the game was relatively uneventful. The billionaire made the smallest of dents in his wallet as he purchased various junk food that was as good as contraband in the Wayne household and let Jason eat the lion's share of it. At least this time around he made sure the boy didn't scarf it down without taking a few breaths.

"Careful. Remember what happened the last time I bought you chilidogs."

Jason waved him off, though at least his bites were smaller and a little further between. "I'm not going to puke. Besides, at least it won't be on Alfred's shoes this time, if it does happen."

"I'd rather it not happen at all," he said, shaking his head and trying a nacho for himself. "Can this really be considered cheese?"

"Depends on how you define 'cheese'. I think they call it cheese product. You can tell from the hint of metal spray-can in the aftertaste."

Bruce arched an eyebrow at his young ward. "Do I even want to know what's in the chili?"

"Best not to ask. Alfie would kill me if you had nightmares."

As the game progressed, Bruce noticed Jason went from mild disinterest to guarded fascination with the game in front of him. Every hit that clapped against the metal bat, every second of thundering applause, and every chase around the diamond grabbed the boy's attention. Sure, in lulls in the game, Jason would occupy his time shooting snark at players who would never hear him while dabbling in the rat poison the stadium called food, but otherwise he was lost in his own world. Baseball, surprisingly enough, agreed with the street kid.

"I bet I could do that," he finally said toward the bottom of the fourth inning. "Hit a ball and run around, I mean. It's not much different than what I'm used to, and you can't tell me I'm not fast."

"You want to play baseball?" Bruce kept his voice steady, his tone even. At this point, if he wasn't careful with his phrasing, he knew his foster son would clam up and refuse to broach the subject again. He inwardly sighed at the knowledge that they had a long way to go before Jason felt comfortable and confident enough in himself to keep from burying his thoughts and feelings.

"I dunno," he shrugged, leaning back. "Maybe. I mean, it could be kinda boring. Look at how much they stand around. It could suck."

"You won't know unless you try, Jay."

Another shrug, then silence. Bruce watched the boy's face for a few minutes, trying to peer through the careful shell Jason always seemed to build around himself. In the past few weeks, he noticed it had been breaking. At least, cracking in places. It was just enough to see the gears turning in the kid's head at the idea of actually participating in a sport.

The rest of the game may have gone by without much more excitement than Bruce actually ordering a beer (and Jason being turned down to try it), and Jason yelling some choice obscenities that earned the confiscation of his Reese's Pieces. Then, at the top of the fifth, two things happened: a quick jumbotron shot and a troublesome foul ball.

As the cheesy sports music rose above the crowds and the cameras captured couples, families, and friends on the giant screen, Jason was shocked to see the moment he and Bruce were displayed high above tens of thousands of people. The boy began to sink down in his chair, cheeks glowing bright red. Bruce, on the other hand, gave one of his best smiles and waved, patting Jason on the back. Confused, the raven-haired boy looked up at his pearly-toothed guardian.

"You're not embarrassed?"

The camera turned away just as Bruce looked into his eyes. "Why would I be embarrassed?"

"A shit ton of people just saw you hanging around with me," he said.

"First, watch your mouth or your M&Ms are next, and second, why would that be a problem?"

Another shrug and silence, though this time Bruce wasn't having it. He gently turned Jason around to face him, taking his chin and pulling his gaze up toward his.

"I'm waiting on an answer."

"Because you're Bruce freakin' Wayne. I know you want me in your house now and whatever, but I also know that people are going to talk about you taking in another kid, and a crumby street-trash one, at that. They don't need any more ammo to use against you."

"You really need to stop calling yourself names, and do you think I give a damn what people say about me when it comes to you and Dick, Jay?"

"Now who needs to watch his mouth?"

Bruce sent him a mild glare, forcing the boy to look away momentarily. "Me being who I am doesn't matter. It would be fine for anyone else to be seen with their kid at a baseball game. I refuse to believe I'm any different in my rights to do the same. I'm not ashamed to be seen with you, my foster son, any more than any father would be ashamed to be seen out with his son."

Okay, that was surprising. Jason stared at his guardian with wide eyes, processing his words. Bruce, however, just smiled and pat him on the back before returning his sights to the game ahead. Being compared, even just slightly, to a proper father and son sent ripples of mixed emotions through Jason, dividing his attention from the game he had been so enthralled with just moments earlier.

Not that he had too long to be shocked. The bases were loaded, there were two outs for the Gotham Knights, and one of their best players was stepping up to the plate. Even in his distracted state, Jason couldn't help but lean forward in his seat to try and catch every moment.

The first pitch was a strike, boos erupting from the crowd in a low, angry hum. Jason inched even closer to the action. Another pitch, held breath, and a snap crackled throughout the stadium, echoing in the air around them. The ball flew high, arching above the crowd and making a sharp left into their section of the stands. For just one moment, Jason wished he were out with the crowd, scrambling for the foul ball.

Then he saw the little boy reaching with all his might to try to catch it, and he was glad he wasn't in the mix. One less person to get in the boy's way.

Too bad one less didn't make a damn bit of difference when a thuggish, twenty-something drunk swooped in and stole the ball right out of the little boy's reach. Some people in the crowd booed, but of course the young man didn't give two damns. He simply held up the ball, cheered, and bowed toward the jeers before making his way back up to his seat. Jason watched as the little boy went to his parents and buried his face in his mother's shirt.

That prick! A fire lit in Jason's stomach as he watched the scene unfold. The child's evident sobbing below only provided fuel to the rising inferno. You don't just do that to a kid. You don't. Not if Jason Todd has anything to say about it, damn it.

His eyes left the game entirely as he watched the progressively drunker man with a growing fury. It didn't take long for the ball-stealer to run out of his beer, toss it to the ground, and ready himself for another round.

"I'll be right back," Jason said, getting up and heading for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"See what other food you can get me and maybe take a leak," he said.

Bruce shook his head at the vulgarity. "If you're not back here in ten minutes, I'm going to look for you."

"You'd probably find the car first," he said, ducking out before he could hear Bruce's response.

Five of those designated minutes were spent navigating through the crowd of people getting their last empty-calorie fix before the stands closed. Yet, sure enough, there the bastard was, in front of the closest beer cart playing with his stolen good.

Without a moment to think of a plan, Jason approached the beer cart and saddled up right next to him. "Nice catch," he said suddenly.

"Huh?" the man asked, looking down at the child. "Dude, aren't you a little young to be here? Juice boxes are thatta way."

"Thatta way? Who the hell talks like that? Bugs Bunny?"

"Whatever," he slurred out, paying for his beer. He didn't pay attention to Jason quietly taking one of the empty beer bottles on display by the register, and he certainly didn't notice the boy following closely behind him.

He did, however, notice when the glass bottle crashed into his head, sending glass shards everywhere. The drunken animal yelled, stumbling at the impact, dropping the ball from his beerless hand. The crowd nearby silenced at the sounds, and Jason felt like he was in one of those cartoons where suddenly everything focused on him.

What happened next was a bit of a chaotic blur. People rushed toward the pair of them, but Jason had enough sense to grab the ball before it rolled away, shoving it under his shirt. In an instant, a couple members of stadium security was on them, giving Jason just a second to appreciate their speed of response compared to the Gotham police.

At least he was returned to Bruce in the ten minute time limit. Too bad Bruce didn't count on it being with security in tow. Catching sight of the three of them, Bruce's eyes went dark and Jason felt like he was staring into the scowl of the Dark Knight rather than his foster father.

"What happened?" he asked.

"He threw one of the display beer bottles at one of the other guests," one of the security members said. Guests? Like they were all at someone's party. Jason struggled to not roll his eyes. "Not clear on the why. He wouldn't tell us."

"Jason? What happened?" His foster father's eyes left no room for side-stepping, though Jason couldn't help but shift uncomfortably under the hard stare.

"He was being rude. Like, really drunk and rude. So, I just reacted. I'm sorry, Bruce. I didn't mean to screw up," he tried, though mostly for the security team. In spite of Bruce's earlier words, he didn't want it to get out that Bruce Wayne had a troublesome, unapologetic bastard for a ward.

"So you threw a glass bottle at him?"

"It was the first thing I saw?"

Bruce ran a hand over his face and began speaking with the security about possible damages. As they discussed the injured drunk and any consequences, Jason attempted to sneak back out the door. He really should have remembered who he was trying to sneak from, Bruce catching him by the back of his shirt and pulling him toward his side.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"I saw someone drop something down in the stands. I promise I'll be right back! You can even watch me from the window. I swear, I'm not going to hurt anyone or do anything else stupid. I just don't want anyone else to pick it up," Jason pleaded.

Bruce looked up at the uniformed pair, coming up with a silent agreement. "We'll go down with you. And then we're going to address this and you will accept any consequences for your actions."

"Yes, sir," Jason mumbled.

He didn't have time to waste on being embarrassed about being lectured in front of strangers. Instead, he led the three of them down the stairs of the stands, lower and lower toward the first few rows of seats. There, still tear-stained and distressed, sat the little boy.

"Hey… uh… I saw you dropped this," Jason said, the little boy looking up with watery confusion. Then, eyes landing on the ball, his face lit up like the Fourth of July. Jason couldn't help but smile as he handed the kid the ball, watching as his eyes danced at the sight of the worn-leather and red stitching.

"Thank you," his mother said, smiling brightly at them. She turned her gaze up to Bruce, letting the awe of being so close to the famous billionaire give her a moment's pause. Then, with another smile, she added, "That's a very sweet boy you have there."

Bruce mirrored her grin, his expression softening as he placed a hand on Jason's shoulder. "He's certainly something."

They nodded in a brief goodbye, Jason parting ways with a swell of pride in his chest. Then the darkness of the looming area behind the stands brought back the trouble he was in and his stomach flipped with dread and half-digested chilidog.

"That man didn't say a word to you, did he?" Bruce asked Jason, face unreadable.

"He said some things. He really was rude. But…"

Bruce sighed and glanced up at the security members. Jason just knew he was a dead man. You don't just throw glass bottles at someone, especially as Bruce Wayne's ward, and not at least get a trip to the gallows.

"We, uh… we saw it, too. The steal. So, the way I see it," the first security person said, looking at her partner, "Your boy was provoked, and you agreed to handle the situation at home."

"Right. We'll handle the rest," the other said.

"Are you sure?" Bruce asked. "If charges are filed…"

"He's drunk as a skunk and provoked a child," the uniformed man added. "I doubt any charges could be filed against your kid. Though, I'd uh… say you might have to steer clear of the stadium for the next few months."

"More than fair," Bruce agreed.

It didn't take long for the three adults to work out the situation and for Bruce to hand over some money in case the ball-stealer needed stitches. In fact, as assumed, it took longer to find the Bentley than to handle the fallout from Jason's momentary lapse of judgement.

When Jason was buckled into the backseat, Bruce quietly slipped behind the wheel and escorted them out of the parking lot. Though the eleven-year-old was disappointed at missing the last few minutes of the game, he found his concern was growing more with Bruce's silence.

"You're not going to kill me, are you?" he finally asked once they pulled into the interstate.

"Why would I kill you?"

"It wasn't you I hit in the head with a bottle, so I know you didn't forget what just happened."

Bruce sighed, looking at his ward from the rearview mirror. "I'm not pleased…"

"I gathered as much."

"You shouldn't have attacked that man. You know better by now than to instigate a fight like that, and you should never, ever hit someone in the head with a glass bottle, Jason. You're lucky he was only dazed with there were a few small cuts. It could have been a lot more serious, and you're extremely lucky you were let off so easily by security."

Jason sighed, leaning into the back of the seat. "I know."

Bruce looked back at the road, letting the still air wash over his foster son for a while, allowing the boy to reflect on what he had done. When their exit approached, he finally added, "I'm proud of you, though."

Jason's jaw nearly hit the car floor. "You're what?"

"I'm not proud of how you went about it, but I'm proud of what you did for that boy. I think we need to work on your methods, but your heart was in the right place. That was a very noble thing for you to do, and you should know that."

The wide-eyed look Jason gave him almost made Bruce burst into laughter. Almost. Instead, he just smirked as they drove through the backroads toward Wayne Manor.

"So, you like baseball?" he asked, if only to get the look off Jason's face.

"Oh. Uh, yeah. I mean, it's hitting and running. I can do hitting and running. Maybe. I'd, you know, have to practice or something. I'm just not really sure who I could do that with. I mean, you and Dick are pretty busy, and Alfie doesn't seem like the play outdoors type."

Bruce peeked at him once more in the mirror. "We're not always busy. I could see if I can find my old gloves. If not, I'll ask Alfred to go out and buy some equipment."

"You'd really do that?" He instantly regretted the excitement in his voice, clearing is throat and turning his rapidly reddening face toward the window.

"Of course I would. Two weeks from now, we'll give it a shot. See how good your catching skills are. Wouldn't be bad training, come to think of it."

"True… Wait, why two weeks from now?"

Bruce chuckled. "Because you'll be grounded until then."

Jason grumbled, sliding in his seat until the seatbelt hit into his jaw. "I like baseball, but I don't know if I like you very much right now."

"Smart aleck," Bruce said.

"Dad jeans."

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**There you have it! Some Bruce and Jason bonding. One of these days he'll stay out of trouble, but I couldn't imagine him not attacking someone who would steal a ball from a little kid...**

**-Defective**


	3. Sick Day

**This chapter was partially inspired by Jason's most cherished memory. By now, I'm sure a lot of you know which one I'm talking about and probably have read a dozen stories devoted to it. Precious, though, right? Also, partially inspired by a scene in the comics that sadly did not involve Jason, but totally should have.**

**This chapter is for Velkyn Karma. Hope this helps make you feel better!**

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He was dying. This was it. The end. He could see a bright light and hear choirs singing. It was so… so…

"Dick, stop singing that stupid song!" Jason yelled. At least, he tried to yell. What came out was more of a high-pitched honking that sent him into a coughing fit. Violently shaking from the effort, he held onto the staircase bannister for fear of tumbling down the rest of the way.

"I thought you liked listening to music," Dick asked, somehow managing both a worried look and one of amusement.

"Not whatever the hell that is, and not from you. Your voice sucks. There's a reason you were never fucking called 'Canary.'"

"Hey, you should be happy I don't sound like Black Canary. Your eardrums would be on the floor."

Jason attempted to roll his eyes, but the rising headache forced him to stop halfway, turning it into a half-assed blink. "Keep going and they will be."

"I don't think that's from me singing, Little Wing," Dick offered. "Probably from whatever plague you have."

A slew of curses halted behind his throat as another coughing fit had him doubling over. Damn it, this thing really had to clear up within the hour or patrol was going to be a bitch! Not to mention he'd have to sit in the Batmobile during any stakeout. There was no way in hell Batman would let him come along if he was going to alert half of Gotham they were there.

"Jay, you should probably lie down."

"I'm fine, Dick. Just allergic to your voice, is all. I'll be fine in a few minutes."

A deep throat cleared behind him. "I doubt that, young sir…"

Jason groaned, throat protesting, as their trusty butler made himself known, swooping in like the wise, gray owl he was. Owlman? Was there already an Owlman? Jason shook his head at the ridiculous thoughts now running through his mind thanks to his fever.

No, not fever. He was _not_ sick.

"I'm fine, Alfie. I just need some water or something and I'll be fine. Good as new. Really," he insisted between hacking.

Too bad Alfred was never one to listen to the all-knowing words of a preteen with a chip on his shoulders. Instead, he gently escorted Jason into the downstairs bathroom, helping him to settle onto the closed toilet when the boy's equilibrium decided it needed to recalibrate. Once he was secure—woozy and a bit clammy, but secure—Alfred hunted through the medicine cabinet for a thermometer and whatever cure-alls he could find.

"I'm fi—"

"Master Jason, I must insist you stop saying you're fine. Not only is it a lie, but it sounds ridiculous with your throat in the shape it's in. Now, open up."

Minutes ticked by as Alfred assessed the situation. Never before did Jason feel so much like a bird in a cage. As sad as it was, he almost missed his old way of dealing with illness when he lived on the streets. Some stolen chicken noodle soup and a pack of cigarettes would have been all he needed to be back to his old self.

Another cough burst from his sore throat. Well, maybe the cigarettes wouldn't be such a great idea, after all.

"I'm afraid to say you seem to have contracted a rather nasty case of the flu," Alfred diagnosed, satisfied after his tests.

"That your professional opinion, doc?"

The butler arched an eyebrow at the boy, the rest of his face unchanged. "If you do not trust my word, we could always venture to the city and spend several hours in Dr. Thompkins's clinic."

"…Touche."

Jason could sense a lecture coming on about the needs of taking care of himself when the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed, blissfully alerting the household to the hour. Patrol time, which meant no more sitting on cold toilet seats being prodded and inspected like he was some lab experiment. Beating the hell out of bad guys was the only medicine he needed.

Muscling through his dizziness, he rushed as fast as he could to the cave before anyone could tell him otherwise, holding on to the stair railing to keep from falling. If he could just get into costume, he'd be fine. Everything would be better as long as he was Robin. Being Robin made everything better, it could certainly handle a flu.

The key was just getting to Batman and into the Batmobile before anyone noticed or voiced an objection.

Bruce was the easy part. Once in Batman mode, the man was oblivious to anything as trivial as a case of the sniffles. Unless Robin's leg were hanging on by a thread, everything else could wait.

"Master Bruce…."

Damn it! Damn Alfred! Damn the cough that nearly split his lungs the second Alfred entered the cave. Most of all, damn the flu he definitely didn't have.

"Might I have a little assistance? Master Jason's sick with the flu. It wouldn't be at all prudent to allow him to join you on patrol tonight."

Bruce didn't look up from the computer. "He's a smart kid. He knows if he's well enough."

If Jason weren't so miserable, he'd be elated. While he left the hugging and happy feelings to Dick, he was tempted to rush over to the man and at least give him a high-five or fist bump. Except, in that moment another cough saw fit to escape his breaking throat, the boy trying to cover it was some seriously lacking bravado.

"That's telling him, boss… Ready?" he managed.

Bruce took one look at him and let out a sigh. "Alfred's right. You're not coming, Jay. You're sidelined until you get better."

Jason made a face behind the mask, his shoulders slumping in miserable defeat. If he had just kept his mouth shut, if he had just kept from coughing for a few minutes longer, he would have been home free. Figured…

"Yes, sir," he mumbled.

The walk back up to the mansion was less of a struggle than the walk down, mostly because he no longer had his pride forcing him to stand upright. Alfred was there at his side this time, ensuring he didn't fall face-first into the stone floors. As they climbed, Dick passed them on his way down to the cave, giving his little brother a supportive glance.

"I guess you're going instead, huh? Back to the old 'dynamic duo'?"

"Not really… Jason—"

Before Dick could explain, Jason let Alfred lead him the rest of the way up the stairs and into the opulent downstairs living room. Resigned to his fate, he took a seat, curling his legs under him and deciding he didn't give two damns he was still in costume upstairs. If he couldn't be Robin out on the streets of Gotham, maybe being Robin in the living room would fix whatever hellish flu he had contracted.

Before long, Alfred settled a bowl of hot chicken noodle soup in front of him and turned on the 72-inch television, leaving him with God-like powers over the entertainment center. Still, it wasn't enough to perk up his mood, knowing full-well that Dick was out there with Bruce cleaning up the mean streets of the city.

"So, what are we watching?"

Jason's head turned so fast at the source of the voice, for a second he thought he got whiplash. There, also in costume save for his cowl, stood a smiling Bruce Wayne. Not Batman, not lost-in-thought detective, but Bruce Wayne: foster father extraordinaire.

"I thought you and Dick were going on Patrol… What about patrol?"

"It's not a crime to take a night off, Jason," the man told him.

"But… Dick…"

"Dick is downstairs monitoring Gotham from the computer. If something big happens, he'll let me know. If it's something the police can handle, then we'll just stick to a night off. So, what are we watching?"

At those words, Jason couldn't help but let a smile stretch across his face, the dull ache in his limbs seeming to ease with the happiness washing over him. Sure, he had thought of Bruce a few times before now as his guardian, as a legal foster parent and an all-round all right guy.

Now? Now more than ever Jason could see Bruce Wayne was his foster father. Sure, there was a small technical difference in calling it foster father rather than guardian, and legally it was the same thing, but in this moment they were worlds apart. Jason was his kid, and the billionaire was choosing to spend his evening next to him watching the stupid television—a device Jason was confident they only got because Dick came into the picture.

"I don't really know. Don't really know what's on," he shrugged.

Bruce smiled down and took a seat next to him, pulling the cape off his ward's back and wrapping it around him like a blanket. Jason never really noticed until now how comforting the cape was. Like down feathered folded around him.

"From what I hear, these days there are over a thousand channels. We can probably find something, huh?"

"Probably…" Jason agreed.

They sat together, letting the sound of flipping channels and interrupted dialogue fill the spaces between them. Though most of him felt happy, as the time stretched on Jason was unsure how he should sit. He had never been so close to Bruce for such a long period of time. Not in a child and parent sort of way. He had clocked hours next to the man as Robin to Batman, but the son thing was still new months after the fact.

Suddenly, Bruce stopped on a channel, his eyes fixed on the black and white images ahead of him. The old-fashioned sounds were jarring coming from the absurdly expensive, high-definition television. Of all things to stop at, Jason was surprised Bruce paused some junk from what looked like the 1930s.

"What's this?" Jason asked, careful to keep his tone respectful thanks to the look on his foster father's face.

"_The Mark of Zorro_. The very beginning of it," he said.

"What's so important about this movie?"

Bruce sighed, and Jason could feel him tense just slightly next to him. For a minute he thought the man was going to seize up or, worse, stand and head back down to the cave, figuring that patrol was better than a movie with him. Except, Bruce didn't move. After a while, he turned to give Jason a sad, strained smile.

"It's the movie I went with my parents to see the night they were killed…"

Well, that was one hell of a downer. And Jason thought having the flu was bad!

"Shit, Bruce, I didn't know. We don't need to watch it. We don't have to watch anything," he rushed, the exclamation ripping his throat in another coughing fit.

Bruce gave Jason as close to a pitying look as he would ever be able to manage barring a hospital visit, patting him on the back until his fit died down. "Of course you didn't know. I was just surprised to see it on, is all."

"Oh. Well, we still don't have to watch it. Whatever you want to put on is fine with me."

He watched as Bruce hesitated, finally placing the remote on the table beside him. "No, I would actually like to see it with you. I remember enjoying the movie before what happened. It was one of the happiest moments I had with my parents, and I think it's better to remember the positives, instead. Watching it with you would help, if you wanted to see it."

Jason smiled so hard and, if only briefly, he forgot all about his flu. He let the black and white flickering and the fuzzy sound fill the room and keep him grounded. Sick or not, he was sure he'd float if he didn't focus on staying put.

"Is this what kinda got you started on the hero thing?" he asked after a while, still firmly on the couch.

"It certainly helped," Bruce chuckled.

They continued to watch the film, Bruce choosing to ignore Jason's battle with his cough except for some well-placed pats on the back when they became particularly nasty. As the hour wore on, the boy could feel his eyelids grow heavy, the weight of his warring immune system exhausting him. He struggled to get comfortable, adjusting a few times in the overstuffed couch.

In one of his attempts to adjust, he placed his head on Bruce's shoulder. Though it was probably the most comfortable he'd been in hours, he soon realized his mistake and bolted up right, wincing as his limbs objected.

"What's wrong?"

"I… sorry, I didn't mean to lean on you or anything," he said.

"Jay, it's fine. Do whatever makes you comfortable, okay?"

Jason chewed his lip before nodding, slowly lowering his head back down on the man's shoulders. Bruce didn't say anything more, simply replacing the makeshift blanket over his foster son's shoulders.

Jason wasn't sure when he fell asleep. He couldn't quite remember the last half of the movie, no matter how hard he tried to picture it in his mind. All he knew was the comfort of resting on Bruce's shoulder, feeling warm and safe under his cape and in the glowing fortress of Wayne Manor.

In a few hours, Bruce would carefully lift the boy up and bring him up to his room. In a few hours, Jason would pretend to be asleep the whole way and Bruce would pretend not to notice when his eyelids fluttered. In a few hours, Jason's fever would break and he'd remember the night he felt like he had the plague was also the best night of his life so far.

But, that was in a few hours. Now, Bruce just let his son lie there, choosing not to say out loud how comforting it was for him, too, having Jason there beside him.

* * *

**Ah, fluff after the previous chapter in my other story felt pretty good. I really do prefer the little brat alive...**

**- Defective**


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